Sherlock Holmes & The Fall of Certainty
by sceirus99
Summary: This is a story that takes place loosely in the ongoing BBC series. It is not entirely in line with the show's canon, and so contains few if any spoilers for the show. Nonetheless, if you are worried about that, do not read before viewing! This story focuses on both Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes in an ever-developing plot that leaves them both shaken and searching for answers.


IT was a Friday evening. The full moon was out, which always seemed to have a stirring effect on the slums and derelicts of London, making the more sinister movements harder to detect. That was soon to be a problem. Sherlock and Watson were in their flat at 221B Baker Street when a client had arrived seeking Holmes' expertise on a personal matter. So personal, in fact, very few details were divulged by the client, who turned out to be a mere proxy for the real client, who had wished to remain anonymous.

Sherlock wasn't all that interested in the case, quickly boring with the lad's explanation of the situation. It was apparently an open and shut murder; a young girl, who was soon to be betrothed to someone apparently close to the Royal Family. Why else for all the secrecy? However, the day before the wedding ceremony, which was clearly to be held in secret, seeing as how no one had written a word about any such high-profile wedding in any of the street mags or tabloids, all contact with the bride-to-be was lost. It wasn't long before this nameless girl had been found dead in an abandoned flat in some shady part of London that she wouldn't have been caught dead in, except that she was-quite dead, in fact-without any conceivable explanation as to why. The cause of death was yet to be ascertained by the "family doctor," but it was clearly suspected to be foul play and the groom, having been implied by the proxy to belong to a rather high-class family, was willing to pay handsomely for an outside opinion to quickly bring the killer to justice, however Holmes and Dr. Watson had wished to loosely interpret the meaning of the word. Still, Sherlock wasn't interested in the slightest. He had seen worse, solved more gruesome, and was bored of even far more intricate cases than this one. That is, until one minute detail was mentioned, most likely as a last ditch effort to enlist his services.

The letter "M" had been etched onto her left breast, just over her heart. While this may not have held any significance at all, Sherlock was immediately quite certain that it might, whispering just under his breath, though Watson vaguely heard and feared he may have understood him to have said "Aha! So the game is on." And at that, the two were off, almost as fast as he had initially snubbed the requests of this anonymous client to begin with. Fear begin to rise within Dr. Watson as he remembered the last time the letter "M" had surfaced in their line of work; the last time that he had nearly lost Sherlock to his own obsessive behaviors for good! Watson pocketed his revolver just in case, half-humouring himself with the possibility of being unsure which man he may have to shoot first: a raving mad Sherlock, frothing at the bit with desperate exuberance to apply his method to a worthy opponent, or the ever elusive Professor, who, no doubt, was slipping the noose around their anxious necks at that very moment, waiting for his chance to finally strike and put an end to his rivalry with the great Sherlock Holmes… if, by chance, he was involved in this case at all. Watson half-kicked himself for being excited by the very real danger of a likely ambush. Bloody war, he thought, it's done turned me into a loon, hasn't it? Easy now, John, easy….

Sherlock had wanted to see the body first, but it was in transit to a nondescript clinic, so as to not jeopardize the anonymity of those involved. Watson could tell his aggravation, but he remained irregularly calm about the inconvenience. Coyly derisive, as usual, but calm, nonetheless. He wasn't yet prepared to hope for what it might be, though unwilling to admit it, even to himself.

The duo first arrived at the scene where the body was discovered. The place had been abandoned, indeed, smelling of rat piss and shit, though these days, that was hardly an indication of permanent vacancy. The room in question was cluttered with loose papers, soiled by weather and vermin and any number of squatters and junkies who took refuge here for their fix. Used needles laid around a particular corner. "Did the victim show any signs of drug use? You know, the arms, thighs, under the nails, behind the ears—anything at all?" Sherlock asked. Nothing to the escort's knowledge, that is, nothing the family doctor had yet reported. It was the same gentleman who arrived at Baker Street, and he was still such a trove of information.

"It was clear they placed the body here, probably after she had died," he said. "No doubt, they had hoped the mess would help to cover their tracks. Unfortunately for them, it's the mess that tells me all I need to know. Two men, both over six feet tall. One weighs about 98 kilos, shoe size 11, the other around 110 kilos, shoe size 13. Dress shoes, likely wearing suits, which means they were also the likely occupants of an European import, probably a BMW, that was here last night, judging by the tire marks they left in the alley. They were in a hurry, and didn't wish to be seen, despite appearing quite out of place, which explains the hour in which they were here. But there's nothing here to ascertain the motive or cause of death or who may have been behind it."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and walked over to Watson by the window, still appearing more calm than usual with the certain someone lingering in the air. "I really need to see that body, Watson. As I suspected, everything is weighing on that mark! But we need to cover all our bases, in the off chance the culprit is not whom I suspect at present."

"I agree," said Watson as he nodded his head. "Do you have any secondary leads? Because I can't convince myself there's actually been a crime here, save for not having burned this slum to the ground years ago."

"No doubt you have other things on your mind Watson. That is understandable. But I need you here. I suspect the drivers may have used the alleyway, and it's not unlike men of their stature to make a little noise when jostling a dead body around in the dark while in a hurry. Try asking around if any of the neighboring tenants heard or saw anything last night. I know it's a long shot, but if I can be certain of what they looked like, I may know of the likelihood of who was behind this, or at least who may be involved. I must see the body. That is where you can find me if you must, though I don't expect it to take all that long to finish my examination. We must act fast, but with caution. Godspeed, my dear Watson!"

And like that he was off, leaving Dr. John Watson to do the often less exciting leg work, for which, though, he was most likely the better-suited. Being a doctor, his bedside manner was leaps and bounds more palatable than Sherlock's usually was. However, Watson was unsuccessful in getting anyone to ring at the neighboring building, as it, too, appeared rather abandoned. This wasn't a part of the city one would expect people to enjoy admitting that they lived there. Watson stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked out into the alley, glancing up at the windows on either side, hoping to catch any glimmer of light, any sign of life. There! On the eighth floor! There appeared to be a candle light flickering dimly against the glass—something Watson probably wouldn't have been able to make out had it not been so bleak and dark that night to begin with.

Clutching his pocketed revolver for reassurance, Watson stepped up to the door again, determined to gain entry. He knew Sherlock wouldn't quite understand why he had let a silent door buzzer keep him from speaking with the tenants, had there actually been any there. He shouldered the door hard, and it gave way into a musty foyer, the sound of a rat scurrying down the hall as the silence of the floor was disturbed. The second door was unlocked, having been busted in more than once from the look of it, and so Watson began his ascent to the eighth floor. Probably just another dope fiend, he thought to himself. He tried the lights. "Bugger," he murmured, as he whipped out a lighter from his left pocket. The stairs creaked with age and with rot. Had the person upstairs on the eighth wished not to be seen, they would surely have enough time and warning to escape before he got halfway through the second.

He noticed the large amount of loose newspapers lying around, and he thought to himself why that was always the case in these old abandoned buildings. Perhaps the games, he thought, trying to score a few bucks on a bet for their next fix. He couldn't believe how insensitive he sounded just then. Maybe it was to keep warm. That was logical, since many of the windows were busted out and many of the walls and ceilings were showing water wear. He had planned to be over at Sarah's this evening, after he had finished helping Sherlock go over some recent cases. With the chance of Moriarty showing his face again, he knew Sherlock would need him desperately, and that he himself would love the chance to get his hands on the man that nearly blew him up at their first meeting. Considering his current task, he realized how foolish it all really was. He wanted to be with Sarah, instead of being here, in this building, proving her theory correct: that he and Sherlock had more of a relationship on most nights than they did. This always made Watson furious when she would bring it up. Partly because he knew she was right, and partly because he knew why she was wrong. It wasn't just to Sherlock that Watson had become attached, but to the risk, the danger, and the excitement! It reminded him of war at times, undoubtedly; it also reminded him of his youth, when he wasn't worrying about being too old to settle down with anyone who hadn't yet developed a dependency on cats by their age, or about being a creep for pursuing anyone young enough and naïve enough to think his war stories even the slightest bit interesting. The truth was, as he repeated it to himself, without Sherlock, he was boring. Perfectly boring, in fact, and practically already in the grave. Sherlock had given him new life. New—his train of thought was rudely interrupted by an additional, unconsidered reason for having loose newspaper in a derelict building: to attempt to cover the sight and smell of shit. I don't suppose he'll give me new shoes, while he's at it? he thought, cursing. Watson walked faster, scrubbing his heel every few steps and stamping loudly, no longer caring if his presence was known or not.

When he finally reached the top of the stairs on the eighth floor, an old woman was waiting for him by her door. She was draped only in a black, loosely knitted afghan, appearing to desire isolation more than an addiction. Her eyes were dark, though bluish from cataracts. "I've been expecting you. Well, not you per say, but someone. It's about last night, isn't it?" Watson nodded. "Did you happen to see anything, ma'am?" he said, still catching his breath from the stairs. "Come in, come in," she said, motioning to Dr. Watson. "I will tell you what I saw, but not out here."

She was holding the candle in her hand, the wax dripping down onto her fingers. Her frail bones shone through her thin skin, her movements slightly quivering with age. She coughed, clearing her throat as she closed the door behind them. There was a salvaged table with two chairs in the room. The woman asked Watson to take a seat as she did the same. "I can tell you this," she began, "I don't see much with these eyes anymore, but I heard a good bit. I had left my window open last night and noticed the noise from the alley. Two men carrying a rug, I guess, into the building next door. I'm not stupid, you know. There's no sense in putting a rug anywhere around here, if that's what it was. They sounded foreign. When they came out of the building, they slammed their doors and sped off. But that's not all I saw, _Dr__. __Watson_," her voiced began to sharpen, eerily. "What do you mean? How do you know my name?" "Oh, I see things," she said. "With more than just my eyes. In the leaves." She pointed with her arthritic finger to a cup on the table. "There's a shadow following you, good Doctor, a shadow of _death_. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to stay out so late at night? The evil comes out at night. It comes out to play, but no one will be laughing," she said, as she started to wheeze into a cackling retch. "No one will be laughing, least of all you! You or your precious _Sarah_!"

Watson stood up suddenly, grabbing the old woman by the arm. "What the bloody hell do you mean by that?!" he shouted. He reached back into his pocket and grabbed his revolver. "Who are you? How do you know about Sarah? Who are you working for?!" He began to shake her, shoving the gun close to her face, but the only noise she made was the wet sound of a broken wheeze box, laughing herself into a violent fit until she rather abruptly died, with Watson's grip so tightly clasped onto her arm that she had already bruised. Her laugh was still echoing through his ears as he reached for his mobile to call Sherlock. He stopped himself, dashing out of the room and bounding down the stairs. He dialed in Sarah's number instead, but it didn't ring. It was late, and she probably turned it off after he had last spoken with her, telling her he couldn't make it over to see her. The cold, metallic taste of fear welled up in his mouth, as he took two, sometimes three steps at a time down the stairs. He rang Sherlock, no answer. _Sherlock __never __answered_. That was Watson's job, after all; something else Sarah had got onto him about. It was too late for that now. His heart was racing. His knees began to shake the faster he tried to run. Down! Down! He started to cramp in his side, breathing angrily and holding it between lunges. He finally made it to the landing and out through the broken double doors into the street. The driver was still waiting there from earlier. Watson charged into the back of the car and told the driver to step on it, stammering out Sarah's address. "There may be a life at stake, man! For God's sake, hurry!" As the driver snapped to, spilling some of his coffee in the seat next to him in his shock, Watson began dialing Sarah and Sherlock repeatedly. Sarah's mobile wouldn't ring, and Sherlock's wouldn't stop ringing, the sound buzzing through his ears like electric fire.

There was light traffic at this hour, as the car raced towards Ms. Sarah Sawyer's address. Watson clamored out of the car and up the steps, using his spare key to enter. The time in the car had cooled some of his fear, to the point that he started optimistically pretending he had simply imagined much of what the old woman had said, that Sarah was perfectly fine, and that the two of them would have a terrible laugh about the matter over a glass of wine. He reached her door and knocked. There was no answer. He unlocked the door, and walked in. Nothing was astir, nothing was out of place; it all looked normal, fine even. But it was quiet. Surely she would have heard the door and called out? he thought. His stomach began to materialize into lead, sinking into his heels as he stepped quickly into what felt like a passing eternity from the front door to her bedroom. "Sarah?" He flicked on the light, and saw a lump in the duvet. Maybe she had taken something to help her sleep, he thought. She had been keeping odd hours at the clinic lately. "Sarah." He stepped closer, and grabbed the edge of the duvet and pulled.

When he awoke, the police had already arrived. The driver had followed Watson in after the commotion he had made and called an ambulance when he saw the body. Watson started to speak, but stuttered out nonsense. "Sarah!" he managed. "Oh god, Sarah! Why?!" Tears began to fill his eyes, as he staggered to his feet, trying to find his fiancée. This must be some awful joke. This must be a dream! he thought. He made his way outside to the street, where the body was being loaded into the ambulance. Sherlock was standing nearby. Their eyes met, but he didn't say anything. His face was solemn, clearly sad for his colleague's loss, though he had never taken a personal liking to Watson's fiancée. Always bickering, accusing her of conspiring to steal Watson away from his work. All of that no longer mattered now. No one was quite sure how to tell what did.

Watson was now sitting on the sidewalk, drinking something warm, with a crisis blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He was in shock, they said. Or at least he might be. It's better to take precaution, better to calm down and get your head together, they said. Watson didn't hear a word of it. He sat there blankly, as one of the detectives on the scene tried to ask him some questions. Sherlock butted in and shoved the man away. "Not now, sod off! Can't you see this man has been through enough?! You can ask your questions later." Sherlock hadn't often taken to the aide of Watson. For one, he hardly needed it, but Sherlock also wasn't one to show his emotions, or to show he cared. It revealed weakness, vulnerability. Both of which were seeping from Watson's slumped frame and his expressionless eyes. Sherlock sat down next to him, placing his hand on his shoulder. He wanted to speak, but knew it wouldn't be of any use. What could be said? He imagined Watson to feel the same way now that he had felt when Irene had been killed. Words didn't matter. They didn't mean anything. Not now.

"Was it worth it?" Watson asked, after minutes of silence. "The body. Did you find anything?" He brought his hands to his face, trying to rub the life back into his burning eyes, drying his tears. Sherlock sighed. "I don't think this is the time to go into that, John, but yes. I found out quite a lot, and there's more." "What then?" "I have reason to believe that the killer is the same one responsible for Sarah's death. John, I'm so sorry. I-"

"Sorry?! Ha, you don't know the meaning of the word, Sherlock!" Watson through his cup down. "So who is it? Who is the sick son of a bitch that killed my Sarah? Huh? Moriarty? Your arch-nemesis? The only man you've been able to think about for the past year? Why hell. Isn't that a little too convenient, Sherlock?" He spat. "You've been so blinded. Blinded by your own damn arrogance and you pulled me into it. This is your disease, Sherlock. It's not mine. It didn't have to be mine…." He stood up, tossing the blanket aside. He slid back into his jacket and ran his hands down his face. "Well? Are you going to tell me or not?"


End file.
